


The diary of Tommy Shelby.

by ThePeakyWriter



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Diary/Journal, F/M, Gen, Multi, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:41:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21767005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePeakyWriter/pseuds/ThePeakyWriter
Summary: Tommy's thoughts on paper. Starting just after the war.
Kudos: 8





	1. Christmas 1918

24th December 1918

I'm alive.. 

It's been Four weeks since we returned home and what feels like a lifetime since I've sat here to write one of these notes. Arthur has almost drunk The Garrison dry, John is running around like a headless chicken after his children, me? I'm barely getting by. I've smoked more than a fucking chimney smokes in a week. 

I don't understand how they can be so laid back right now. I can't even fucking sleep without seeing the same sight. The same fucking sight every time I close my eyes. I've ended up getting something 'herbal' to smoke before bed. It's quite relaxing but wears off too quick for me. 

On a positive, I'm pleased the business is still going though. Aunt Pol done a good job. Not that I doubted she wouldn't. Being so far away and no control, I could only hope that we'd return to a business that was still standing. Guess it's now time to dig our feet into this and make it successful.

Christmas Eve sat in the office at the bookmakers, smoking like a chimney and on the last drop of Whiskey that I could find, writing this... my mind I guess. 

First Christmas home in a few years. Pol has even put a Christmas tree in the corner of the Bookmakers, I'm sure Finn is taller than it, which says something really. Her and Ada are trying to make it a special Christmas as a Family. Pol bought home another Christmas tree that's too big for the fucking living room, Charlie had to cut the top off for it to fit, Ada has gone quite mad with presents. Arthur has already insisted he wanted to be Chef although, with his drinking habits lately, I'd rather eat my own shoe than anything he attempts to cook! John keeps scaring his children by telling them Father Christmas is watching, so they must behave. It's giving the children nightmares! 

Im sick of being constantly asked what I would like for Christmas. I don't want no gifts. If twenty nine year old me could sit on the lap of a big fat man in a red suit and tell him what I wanted, I'm pretty sure I would end up being taken away to the asylum, like a large percentage of the soldiers I knew. 

I'm trying to shut everything out from the War, really trying. Maybe Christmas as a family is a start to good things. 

1919 You better be a good fucking year. 

Merry Christmas, 

Written by, 

Thomas Shelby.


	2. New Years Eve 1918

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy's mental health is eating him away. The anger is starting to show with the words he puts to paper.

31st December 1918

New Years Eve. The last day of the year. What a fucking year it has been. 

It feels the last four have just merged into one whole fucking mess, and yet I can’t seem to close the door on it.

The memories of what I saw keep haunting me. They’re going to do so for the rest of my life, yet I’m struggling to accept that. I can’t. It can’t. The herbal stuff isn’t fucking working, yet it has just become a routine before bed. I can’t even say it’s become addictive either, since it does nothing. 

Fucking nothing! I sleep and wake up as if I’m suffocating in the mud. The tunnel collapsed and I’m fucking suffocating. 

Danny Whizzbang isn’t doing good either. His outbursts are fucking frightening. It seems I’m the only person to be able to console him. I try with all my power to reassure him we are home, and safe, yet the next day he’s triggered again, and again, and a-fucking-gain. They’re going to send him to the asylum if he’s not careful. He’ll join the rest of them. 

Maybe that’s where I’m going wrong. Maybe I need to join them too, as it seems every fucking soldier who made it home, has ended up in that place.

Pft. I’d rather stick a fucking bullet through my head, than end up in somewhere like that. 

On a happier note, Christmas day went well. Chef Arthur surprisingly did a good job with the food, although I certainly won’t be allowing him to set up a fucking restaurant anytime soon! As mentioned before, Ada went over the top with gifts. She got me a shiny new pocket watch for my suits. I have to admit, it was a very touching moment. John has taken up drinking. I don’t think its war related. He’s struggling with the children. They are a bloody handful. 

Polly still seems to be pretty pissed off that her amazing Christmas tree had to have the top cut off. We keep telling her it’s going to be chopped up in a couple of days anyway, yet she still insists on watering the fucking thing. 

Business is steady, nothing much to report in that over the Christmas period. 

I’ve got big plans for 1919 though. 

Now, I’m off to The Garrison to join everyone else with the intention of starting 1919 off good. 

Happy New Year.

Written by,  
Thomas Shelby. 


End file.
